Martial Smarts

(For sake of familiarity, I'll refer to Korean martial arts terminology here. What? You don't know Korean?! OK - fumble along and I'll graciously provide explanation, just as a patient Master would do).
I always, always wanted to have a go at Martial Arts. I liked the clean white uniforms (doboks), the crazy HI-YA! shouting (kihaps), and the discipline that I sorely lacked (uuummm, present tense applies). For years I allowed my mind to tip toe around the thought of entering a studio (dojang) to inquire, but I was convinced that they would go all Cobra-Kai on me, like the bad dojang from the first Karate Kid, and I'd be standing there, doing the Crane with a jacked up leg dangling, thinking, "what the hell am I doing facing off with the Cobra-Kai guy? I'm 35 and have a three year old watching from the bleachers, not Ralph Macchio with his Sensei stoically channelling his ch'i power!"
Alas, I Entered the Dojang.
Since then, I've been pinned, joint-locked, thrown, flipped, tapped, kicked, punched, had pressure point squeezed, seen stars, bled, healed, and bled again. It's no easy task to start martial arts when you are well into adulthood and are under following delusions:
~people jump long distances in slow motion
~the only non Asian white person really good at MA is Chuck Norris, and soon after you will need to buy a Total Gym (WHICH I DID)
~every Asian person secretly knows MA, even the little old bendy ones with canes
~Grand Masters can kill you with a simple touch to your pinky.
The truth, as usual is more difficult to sort out. Of course, no one jumps in slow motion, but MA, is neither limited by race or age (case in point: me). And it might be a sort of cool urban legend that Asian people have some inherent martial arts gene, but that's kind of like saying that all French food is superb, and if you've ever had Ris de Cervelles au Beurre Noir (scrambled brains in brown butter), you know what I mean. It's just a stereotype.
Some martial artists are bickering endlessly about whose art is the "best", although I suspect that this is the younger crowd; the experienced practitioners tend to shy away from trivial arguments and focus on amerliorating themselves and their art. Me? I just like to be practice, as they say in Judo, "the gentle art of throwing". Shoulder throws, hip throws - just sail me through the air, preferably letting me gracefully land on a mat, sans injury.
I don't pretend to be an expert at subduing the opponent, but I had already done alot of stuff that, in my mind, qualified me at least halfway to black belt. These include:
~random falling, tripping, jumping, bumping, and toe-stubbing
~deflecting the octopus arms of over-eager dates
~scaling fences (of angry dogs)
~practicing various impossible yoga poses (Scorpion, anyone?)
~living on a diet of a bowl of rice a day for four months for that ascetic spitituality thing
~giving birth without drugs (or even without another person in the same room- (hello? definite black belt material) ~I owned ~I owned a sword - OK, a scimitar from my belly dancing days - (close enough)!
So, I forged ahead to the male dominated world of throw-downs. But like anything else, there are people in it who drool at the prospect of selling a student a coloured belt every few months. Note, I said selling not teaching. And it snowballs until the art is lost in commercialism and dragon symbols that would make even Bruce Lee turn in his grave.
(Not that purists and excellent instructors don't exist! In my humble experience, a great instructor makes the dojang environment welcoming, not intimidating. He or she is not punative, but encouraging, and is committed to success for students of many different abilities. He or she is also humourous and humble, recognizing insight and opportunities to learn from the newest white belt)!
Back to me, of course. I still seek the great SaBomNim who will guide my jump roundhouse kicks into sonic booms and my inner Asian spirit to enlightenment. Until then, I practice my breakfalls and ambushing snap kicks with aplomb, and try not to scream when I step on a squeaky cat toy in the middle of the night - which seems not to alarm my Ninja Within, but my tiny Grasshoppah...
PHOTO: I know - the form needs work. I still look pretty badass.